


Role Reversal

by Syrum



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Dry Humping, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not sure if warzone sex is a kink or not, Kissing, M/M, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4793234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming back from the dead was hard enough, but the months that followed were impossibly worse for Pietro, and he was so very alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Role Reversal

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I decide to procrastinate from sewing my cosplay. Oops. Also, this totally did not go in the direction I had originally envisioned!
> 
> #sorrynotsorry

He had survived. Admittedly, he hadn’t survived particularly _well_ , and there was now a hole in his chest the size of Clint’s fist where they had ripped him open to try to fix the damage, but Pietro was alive. Or, breathing at least. And that’s what mattered. He still had a debt to pay to the kid, after all, he couldn’t have Pietro dying on him before he had managed to square that off.

It was still touch and go, a myriad of machines beeping and pulsing around him, the room otherwise entirely too silent. He was too used to the snark and banter that accompanied the white-haired youth, who now lay silent upon crisp hospital sheets, skin too pale and eyes too sunken for it to be mistaken for anything other than what it was.

The doctors had done all they could, it was up to Pietro now to come back from the brink, to fight the lonely battle back to consciousness, to break out of the induced coma they had placed him in to give him at least a fighting chance. Clint would kick his ass, of course, once he was well enough to take a beating. Though it was likely he would have to wait for Wanda to have her turn.

Wanda, the Scarlet Witch, quiet and reserved and silently simmering with furious rage since her brother was near enough taken from her. Was taken from her. She felt him die, over and over, as he slipped away and was brought back by men and women unwilling to let him pass silently into oblivion. She had barely left his side since that day, and Clint wasn’t sure he could blame her; he barely wanted to leave the silver speedster as it was and they were barely acquaintances, enemies forced onto the same side and becoming something more. Wanda was a friend now. Pietro, not so much, he simply hadn’t had the chance. Clint was determined to give him that chance, and as he watched the machines pump another lungful of air into the barely alive man upon the bed, he felt his stomach clench unpleasantly.

He couldn’t die. He wasn’t _allowed_ to die. Not yet.

When Wanda returned, offering him a small but watery smile, he turned and left, clasping her shoulder in solidarity as he went. He didn’t turn to look back, pushing down the ache in his heart and trying not to think too much on it.

* * *

It was like swimming through molasses, thick and dark and so heavy it seemed to weigh him down, dragging him away from whatever he had been trying to run towards. Pietro opened his mouth, tried to scream, but the darkness flooded in, filling his lungs and stomach until he could barely breathe, _couldn’t_ breathe. There was pain, and there was noise, but it was better than the nothingness he was fighting against. He pushed with everything he had, every atom of his being aching for the light and the sound of _something_.

Noise and smells and light assaulted his being, and it was both wonderful and terrifying. Body too heavy to move, a numbness in his chest and limbs that belied hidden pain, but he was there and it was happening and Pietro had never been happier to be alive.

“-awake!”

“I’ll fetch the doctors, stay with him.”

“Clint, _Clint!_ ”

Voices, swimming in and out of his hearing range, vision still blurry and mind still fuzzy Pietro could do little but force his eyes to blink, lids entirely too heavy, trying to drag him back down into the depths. He wouldn’t go, though. Not yet, not until...until what? It was hard to think, and Pietro found himself wishing for better times, nights when Wanda would simply hold him after a nightmare, or how his mother would stroke his hair to calm him. He longed for those days, of childhood innocence, when the worst kind of pain was a scraped knee or a black eye from a fight he had inevitably started.

“Pietro, can you hear me? Brother?” He could see the face above his own, just barely, the edges blurred and indistinct. The voice he knew, though, and the tumble of auburn hair that belonged to Wanda. He tried to speak, and failed, mouth barely opening and a huff of air escaping. Instead, he focused everything he had on the hand that he could feel holding his own, managing to twitch his fingers just slightly, a poor mimicry of the reassuring squeeze he had hoped for but it seemed to do the trick. He felt wetness his the side of his cheek, and knew his sister was crying, crying for him. It felt like a punch in the gut, knowing he was the reason behind her tears. Just how many had she cried for him? And how many more before this was over?

“You _stupid_ fuck.” It might have sounded harsher, had the voice not broken part way through, with more emotion than was perhaps meant seeping through. Blinking, Pietro’s vision cleared just enough to make out dirty blonde hair and a downturned mouth, the hint of stormy blue eyes below brows pulled together in worry. The expression on Clint’s face was somehow more upsetting than the one he knew would be painted across his sister’s, and he felt strong fingers grasp at his left hand, holding firmly, trying to keep him there. It was hard, though, and he was so very tired, lashes feeling like lead as they dragged sluggishly over drug-blown eyes. He managed the smallest of smirks, mouth twitching upwards in what could have been nothing, missable in the blink of an eye, and then let himself go again.

He knew Clint wouldn’t miss it.

* * *

“Here.” A scrap of paper was pushed into his hand, and Pietro looked at the numbers in confusion for a moment, before glancing back up at Clint who looked almost...embarrassed? He wasn’t certain, the expression on the archer’s face well-schooled. “My number. S.H.I.E.L.D should provide you with a phone, if you ask for one. Text me. Or call, or whatever. If you want.” Clint shrugged, tried to look nonchalant, failing miserably and Pietro could only smirk.

“We shall see.” His voice slurred from the medication he had been given to allow him to safely travel, Pietro could not help but smirk. He could still see the worry in Clint’s eyes whenever he thought Pietro wasn’t looking, and it almost hurt to witness. The doctors had said quite early on that the speedster wasn’t healing as fast as he should be, particularly with his powers offering enhanced healing as well. He was awake, and he was moving around - albeit in a wheelchair for the moment - but he had no stamina, and it hurt to walk much less run. Sending him to the S.H.I.E.L.D facility on the other side of the country had been the idea of one of the higher-ups, and he had little say in the matter. If it made Wanda happy, and removed at least some of the worry from Clint’s eyes, then it would be worth it, he thought.

“Just don’t go jumping in front of any more bullets while I’m not around.” Clint groused, aiming for an amused tone and missing almost entirely.

“So I can when you _are_ around, is that right?” Pietro smirked for a moment, before taking the initiative when it became apparent that Clint would not, gripping his arm and tugging him down, Clint letting himself be pulled into position, his confusion apparent. It wasn’t until slightly chapped lips pressed firmly against his own that he realised, finally, that Pietro’s intention had been to kiss him. Clint’s surprised yelp turned into a low, pleased hum as he steadied himself on the arms of the wheelchair and kissed back hungrily, the speedster’s hand in his hair only serving to add fuel to the fire building in Clint’s belly.

The sound of someone clearing their voice behind him made Clint startle, though he did not jerk away, didn’t care who saw, breaking the kiss but holding Pietro’s gaze for a long moment, making absolutely certain that he caught at least a glimpse of heat within his eyes. It was enough, for the moment at least, and as the jet took off with Pietro and Wanda on board, Clint could still feel the tingle of lips against his own.

* * *

The first few days were nightmarish; test after test, blood work, poked and prodded with more needles and sensors than he could keep track of. Pietro hated the facility, it reminded him too much of HYDRA and the hell he had to go through with them. He had Wanda with him, at least, and that made it manageable, even if she wouldn’t stop teasing him about that kiss.

That kiss, that one long, impossibly perfect kiss, that kept him awake at night and turned his dreams into something sordid whenever he was able to drift off. He wanted firm hands upon his chest, lips and teeth biting and sucking along his neck and shoulders, he wanted _Clint_. 

Those thoughts were all that kept him going when the physical rehabilitation started. The pain was excruciating, and he was often left screaming as he struggled with muscles that would not do as he commanded, every movement of his legs unbearable. His brain, they said, had suffered too much damage, he had been gone for too long before they brought him back, it had caused irreparable damage to his nervous system. He might never run again. He might never walk again. Except, he had to; he was no use to anyone otherwise, and so he kept pushing, for himself, for the Avengers, but mostly for Clint.

They had furnished him with a mobile phone as soon as he asked for one, and Wanda as well though she seemed uninterested in the Stark-branded device, leaving it in its box in the top drawer of her nightstand. He had, after all, no one she would want to call, no one to text; Pietro was right here at her side, and any friendships she may have started to build were too new and fragile for such intimacy. Pietro, however, had used his almost immediately, Clint’s number being the first and only entry in his phone book. He had tapped out a quick text almost immediately, before tossing the phone on his pillow and letting one of the scientists wheel him from his room for another round of tests.

He hoped, when he returned exhausted to his room that night, that Clint might have responded to his message. His inbox remained glaringly empty, though, and remained that way the next morning when he checked again.

* * *

Clint checked his phone, frowning, before tucking it away again and levelling his bow for the shot. He wasn’t certain what he had expected, giving Pietro his number like that, several scenarios playing out in his mind, but complete silence wasn’t among the options and it confused him, unnerved him, his shot barely making its target. The kid was a distraction.

It became almost like a nervous twitch; every time his phone buzzed, and oftentimes when it did not, Clint would stare hopefully at the screen for a moment before his face would fall and the phone would get shoved back into his pocket.

Weeks passed, and Clint hated himself a little more each day for the empty maw that was his heart and his inability to focus.

“You’ve got it bad.” Natasha placed a mug of coffee in front of him on the table, making him jump and almost drop the remote. “He’ll come back, he just needs time to heal.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Clint sighed, shifting over so she could sit herself down next to him on the oversized chair. “I’m old enough to be his father, though, you know that right?”

“You’re not _quite_ that old yet.” She teased, taking a sip of her own drink and smiling at him over the rim of her mug, eyes twinking. “Don’t forget, he kissed you first. That means something, whether you think it does or not, he’s going to come back for you.”

“Thanks Nat.” He managed a small smile, somewhat watery but still there and she settled closer against his side, her warmth reassuring.

“Besides,” She added lightly, lips quirking as she tried not to grin. “That kiss was hot.”

The cushion he threw at her missed entirely.

* * *

Weeks passed, then months, and gradually the pain seemed to lessen, or he was feeling it less, blocking it out as he moved himself around the facility, no longer requiring the use of a wheelchair. He had even started to run again, only short distances and it wasn’t easy, but he could do it and that was what mattered. He was proud of himself, of his progress, and told Clint so in the daily message he sent to the archer. He had long ago given up on expecting a response, anger giving way to misery, misery to apathy, and finally acceptance. It had become routine, though, and he pressed send regardless.

It took almost a full nine months for Pietro to be back to what might be called ‘normal’. Nine months of gruellingly hard work and pushing past limits he did not know he had, a living hell. Nine months until he was considered well enough to leave the facility, on his own two feet, sighing as sunlight hit his over-pale skin and he considered what to do next.

He knew what he _wanted_ to do; he wanted to find Clint, to ask him why, to find out if he truly meant so little to the archer that he could simply ignore his agony for so many months. Surely one text message wouldn’t have been too much to ask? Instead, he tossed his phone into the bushes, no longer having any need for it, and headed back to Sokovia.

* * *

Clint was in a meeting when his phone buzzed, twitching slightly in his seat but otherwise ignoring it. He felt Natasha’s eyes flick to him and then away again, her surprise evident but they both knew he couldn’t keep doing this. His memories of Pietro were driving him to distraction, and his constant hope that the speedster might, perhaps, contact him was tearing him apart. It was affecting his work, his health and his sanity, and he knew it needed to stop.

He was already on thin ice as it was, having received two warnings about his conduct and almost making a fatal error on his last mission. He needed to focus, to _move on,_ but as his phone buzzed again, and then a third time, he felt his resolve slipping. Steve turned his focus on Clint, curiosity etched across his features as the phone continued to buzz, one text after another after another, too fast for any normal person to send. But then, Pietro wasn’t exactly normal.

“Go, it’s fine.” Steve offered him a soft smile and Clint was gone, stumbling from the room his heart in his mouth as he flipped open his phone, the number on his screen indicating how many unread messages he had steadily increasing, over a hundred, then over two hundred, finally stopping at two hundred and ninety four unread messages. With shaking fingers, he finally opened his inbox and began to read. The first few were fairly innocent in nature, though with a jolt Clint realised that they had been sent some nine months previous even if the date and time stamp said otherwise.

_You were right old man, they did get me a phone, so now you’ve got my number - P_

_Guess you’re busy, huh? Must be tough being an Avenger, having to fight assholes like me. They’re starting the tests tomorrow, can’t be worse than getting shot, right? - P_

_They’re worse than getting shot. Seriously, do not let these guys patch you up - P_

As he worked his way through the list of messages, Clint’s knees gave out and he slid to the floor in the hallway, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.

_They’ve decided to stop jabbing me with needles at last, they’re moving me on to more physical work tomorrow. I wish you’d text back, it’s lonely here - P_

_Wanda wants to know why I don’t smile any more. I’ve told her it’s the pain. It’s not. - P_

A small sound of distress escaped Clint’s throat, and he wasn’t aware of the wetness upon his face as the messages took on a decidedly darker tone, the speedster no longer signing his messages off with his signature ‘P’ and his desperation seeping through.

_The pain is unbearable, I don’t know how much more of this I can take, I want to go home_

_Why won’t you contact me? I need you, I can’t do this, please don’t leave me like this_

_Some days I wonder if death would have been easier than this_

He barely felt strong, slender arms wrap around his shoulders, didn’t hear the softly spoken words that were meant to soothe, didn’t push Natasha away as she skimmed over the messages while he scrolled down.

_I think this might well kill me. I miss you_

Clint broke, then, phone clattering to the floor, the rest of the messages going unread. His heart felt as though it had been shattered into pieces, knowing that Pietro had done as he had hoped, had messaged him, and he hadn’t known. Clint could do little else, so he buried his face in Natasha’s neck and sobbed.

* * *

“You can’t keep doing this.” Wanda stood before him, hands crossed over her chest, scowling at her brother as he patched himself up yet again.

“Really? Because I’m doing quite well at it.” Pietro snapped back, shooting her a tired glare.

“You are destroying yourself, and I will not watch you die again. You are my brother and I love you, but you are an idiot.” She turned on her heel then and marched from the room. Pietro huffed in frustration and scrubbed a dirty, bloodied hand through his hair. She was right, of course, but the path of destruction was so sweet and, really, what did it matter?

They weren’t together, when the explosions started some hours later. Pietro raced from building to building, trying in vain to locate his sister, abject terror flooding his system at the thought that she might have- but no, this was _Wanda,_ she was strong and she would survive, but still the doubt and fear was there and he simply could not find her.

Another blast, and the shockwave blew him off his feet, landing with a crunch on the gravel and sliding a short way, fabric and skin tearing against the harsh ground. Stumbling to his feet, disorientated, Pietro did not see the lone gunman with his sights trained upon the speedster’s forehead. He did not react as the trigger was pulled, gunshot ringing out across the deserted street like a thunder crack.

* * *

They had departed as soon as they got the call; Pietro was in Sokovia, and they had the coordinates, Wanda was to meet them when they landed. She sounded desperate on the phone, worried sick that her brother would do something foolish and get himself killed.

Again.

Clint was not about to let that happen. It was a relief when they finally landed, finally met with Wanda and as they walked she told them of the unrest, of the social discord that Pietro was fighting against, helping and hurting and not caring one bit for his own well being. He was trying to become a martyr, she said, though he had denied it when she had asked.

They were only half way there when the bombs went off. Clint was off, running, _where is he_ , ignoring the chaos around him and the order to return shouted from behind him. No, he would not listen to orders, he had something far more important at stake than another reprimand.

He had to find Pietro.

Clint had no idea where he was going, just knowing that he had to cover as much ground as possible as quickly as he could. He longed for a nest, somewhere high, so he could look down upon the chaos and pick out that blur of blue and white. But the buildings were not safe, and in the time it would take him to locate one that was, he might be too late, and so he ran.

Another blast, up ahead, felling a small tower block that looked as though it had been hastily constructed after the attack on the town, and Clint finally saw it; that blur, moving fast but not fast enough, knocked to the floor by the force of the explosion. Heart in his mouth, Clint raced towards the speedster as Pietro stumbled to his feet, clearly winded and disorientated. He saw the gunman, saw the telltale pull of the rifle, and hoped he had been fast enough.

* * *

The ground rushed up at him once more, an arm around Pietro’s waist and he found himself thrown back against the remnants of what had once been a house. In his confusion, he lashed out, striking a blow to the face of his attacker, earning a low grunt of pain.

“You stupid, _stupid_ -” Hands pinned to his sides, he found Clint crouched over him, bleeding profusely from his right shoulder. “I _specifically_ told you not to die!”

“You weren’t here!” Pietro snarled, opening his mouth to continue and finding it blocked by Clint’s own, lips moving urgently against his own in a kiss that was neither gentle nor slow. Shocked into action, Pietro kissed back, all teeth and tongue with a viciousness that he did not know he had in him. He was angry, furious that Clint could simply leap back into his life as though the previous year had been nothing at all, angry at himself for _letting_ the archer do that.

Pushing Clint down, Pietro found himself straddling the older man, biting and sucking his way down Clint’s neck as his hands scrabbled for purchase, needing to touch, to _feel_. Clint could only groan, bucking up against the hot body pinning him down, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as he buried his hands in those over-long silver locks. Pietro was angry, and he wanted Clint to know it, wanted him to hurt, to feel what he felt over those long, lonely months. He ground down hard against the archer, revelling in the way Clint’s eyelids fluttered shut and the deep, throaty groan it pulled from the other man.

“Um, guys? Middle of a warzone here, maybe not the best place for a makeout session?” 

“Shut up, Tony.” Clint was barely able to force the words out, finding his bottom lip captured between sharp teeth, the taste of copper on his tongue intoxicating. Narrow hips rutted against his own, stuttering as, with a strangled cry, Pietro tensed against him, eyes fluttering shut as he reached a messy completion, the front of his smalls left feeling hot and wet.

“Okay no, _no_ , you guys do _not_ get to have sex while I defend your asses. I don’t care what kind’ve kinky shit you’re into, that is _not_ cool.” Pietro levelled a glare at Stark, who was hovering some ten feet away, the occasional clink of a bullet off his armoured shell barely audible over the fighting. The speedster shot Tony a grin that was all teeth and no smile, before hauling Clint to his feet, earning a pained yelp from the archer as his injured shoulder was jostled.

“You left me.” His tone was flat, accusing, eyes flashing dangerously in the low light. “Do you have _any_ idea how that felt, to be abandoned like that?”

“I’m sorry, I just-” Clint pulled Pietro to his chest, ignoring the jutting ache between his legs, simply needing to _hold_ the younger man. “I didn’t get your messages. Not until after they’d already released you, and when I went to _find_ you, they said you were already gone.”

“I was so angry for so long, so _hurt_ , I do not know if I can forget so easily.”

“I would never willingly hurt you, Pietro. If I’d had any way of contacting you, I would have.” Pietro was mouthing at his neck, tugging at over-sensitised skin, the whole thing feeling more than a little surreal. He glanced up at Tony, who was steadfastly refusing to look even remotely in their direction and wondered just how he was going to explain all of this to the others when they, inevitably, found out.

* * *

“You’re an idiot.” A rolled up newspaper smacked Clint over the head, and he flinched from the impact, rubbing at the top of his head.

“Yeah, so you’ve said.” Clint sighed, sitting back as Natasha settled herself into the seat beside him, swinging her legs around so they were propped up on his lap.

“You almost got yourself killed, and Tony’s still complaining that you’ve scarred him for life.” She was watching him intently, looking for any sign of weakness, anything she could exploit. Not that she _would_ , but it was a habit that was hard to break in her line of work.

“I’m sure he’ll get over it.” He could feel the low pulse of a headache starting to return, the same one that had been troubling him since their return, right behind his eyes. “It wasn’t like he actually _saw_ anything, there wasn’t anything to see.”

“No, just two guys dry humping while being _shot at_.” The low drawl from the door startled Clint, though Natasha simply seemed vaguely amused. “I saved your ass, least you can do is pay for the therapy. Or a new bottle of scotch.” Tony grumbled as he poured the last few dregs into a glass tumbler, barely enough to bother drinking at all, but he would anyway.

“Is there anything you wouldn’t have done, at that point, to bring him back?” Nat was watching him again, the look on her face one he knew too well, one that told him if he gave her the wrong answer then he would be in trouble, but that there might not _be_ a right answer.

“No.” He answered, after the briefest pause. “I would have walked into hell itself.”

“Good.” She replied, not missing a beat, smile tugging at her lips as she swung her legs around to stand. “Shouldn’t you be elsewhere?” Raising an eyebrow, the suggestion clear, Clint could not help the slight flush that coloured his cheeks and neck.

“He’s sleeping.” Clint could not help but smirk at the noise Tony made behind him, noticing the wicked glint in Natasha’s eye, well aware of what she was doing.

“You tired him out already?” She asked, almost innocently, Clint’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter as Tony choked on his drink. He took that as his cue to leave, still snickering, the last murmurs of conversation between Nat and the still-choking billionaire following him to the elevator. All things considered, and ignoring the pain from the hole in his shoulder, he was happier than he had been in longer than he cared to recall.

* * *

“You came back.” Pietro was a little surprised, sprawled across the large double bed, somehow managing to hog the entire thing without much effort, hair mussed and with the look of one still half asleep. “I was not certain that you would.”

“Well you can stop that right now.” Clint knelt on the edge of the mattress, leaning in to brush a ghost of a kiss across Pietro’s forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.” He let himself be maneuvered down onto the bed, kicking off his shoes as Pietro curled against his good side, careful not to jostle the bound shoulder.

“I do not think you will be able to use your bow for a while, old man.” Pietro fingered the edge of the white bandages, thankful not for the first time that the injury from the bullet had not been more severe. “Probably something to consider the next time you decide to copy me.”

“Mm, maybe.” Chuckling, Clint pressed another kiss into the speedster’s hairline, earning a small sigh from the younger man who nuzzled his head under Clint’s chin and grew still. Laying there, his arm wrapped around Pietro as the younger man slipped peacefully back off to sleep with his head pillowed on the archer’s chest, Clint finally allowed himself to relax and breathe a sigh of relief. Even if the peace didn’t last, even if the world ended tomorrow, he at least had _this_ , had _Pietro_.

And that was all that mattered.


End file.
